


All Play, No Work

by cherrydumpling



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, College AU, Drugs, Falling In Love, Hate Sex, Love/Hate, M/M, Sexual Tension, dorm au, roommate au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-06-01 12:00:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6518422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrydumpling/pseuds/cherrydumpling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean had imagined a whole four years of debauchery, with maybe ten percent study. Of course, then his parents pulled the rug from under his feet. They, and their illustrious fortune, were not going to be financing him in any way. Damn, he'd imagined renting those private places near campus, private and grand like he was used to. But here he sits, second week at Trost League, hair dirty, eating a dollar store candy bar and trying to avoid seething at his roommate. As if things could get any worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Oh, fuck." - An Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY, so this is my first fic in a LONG time and I've made peace with it being a disgusting "I hate you so much I want to fuck your brains out" tale. It will, probably, have a few subplots but lets all be honest here I've made my intentions pretty succinct. I'll probably write a chapter every couple of days. I appreciate feedback! Love ya.

Somehow, university was a hell of a lot worse than it should've been. In his head, Jean had imagined a whole four years of debauchery, with maybe ten percent study. Of course, then his parents pulled the rug from under his feet. They, and their illustrious fortune, were _not_ going to be financing him in any way. Meaning Jean, laziest rich kid alive, had to get a student loan, a big one. Of course, that also meant he had to get a part-time job, which ended up as working the checkouts in a gas station, in a polo shirt and loafers. And then he had to finance a dorm room. Damn, he'd imagined renting those private places near campus, private and grand like he was used to. In his head, like a preteen kid, he'd already dubbed it multiple sexist, degrading names regarding all the prospective sex he was of _course_ entitled to. But here he sits, second week at Trost League, hair dirty, eating a dollar store candy bar and trying to avoid seething at his roommate. Roommates, no matter how much he pleaded with the resident advisor, are not changeable unless you pay a fine to the board. A fine that Jean Kirschtein, only child of the wealthy founder of Kirschtein Conveniences, could somehow not afford. So he was somehow stuck with some kid from downtown Shigan. Oh, but fate couldn't afford not to humiliate him further. It had to be Eren Jaeger, shithole of the football team, swanning in on a Phys Ed degree like he owned Trost. If there was anything Jean despised more than his own inflated ego issues, it was Eren Jaeger's inflated ego issues.

     On the first day of admissions, Jean was late. He'd tried to take the bus but got lost, ended up going all the way to inner city and back again. By the time he'd got there, his dorm room was already unlocked. In one fleeting grasp at hope, Jean imagined some mediocre maths student who kept to himself and was unattractive enough to somehow elevate him in comparison. When he opened the door, there were suitcases strewn on the floor, a smashed glass, and Eren, splayed on a futon.

     Eren and he had history, and not a simple one. They started off as friends but a rivalry sparked somewhere in the pit of preteen life. Like moths to flames they fought every day. In final year, for the most part they stopped fighting, resorting instead to courting the same girls and drinking against eachother at parties. Since then, Eren had changed a lot. He'd cut his hair, which was years overdue in Jean's opinion; long enough to curl but short enough to avoid sagging over his forehead like a wet rag (high school memories). His voice was even deeper, still tinted with the same lilt Jean had always known. Physically, Eren was a tank, muscles lifting and falling under tan skin that, for some stupid reason Jean didn't understand, attracted every girl on the planet. And in those few seconds, as he finally took in the stupid face of the stupidest ass on the stupid planet, his hopes and dreams of debauchery, his final clutches at unrelenting hedonism, collapsed into his new reality. Or, as Jean put it, “Oh, fuck.”


	2. Sentimentality, As Explained by Jean

In some ways, Jean wasn't such an asshole. He could feel empathy. That much, he knew, proved he wasn't a psychopath. When he was little he used to play in his very own sand pit, in his garden, bought by his parents just for him- and he  _always_  played alone. He hated that- didn't understand it, either. Maybe he just didn't know enough about the world because his dad was absent all the time, business trips abroad more important than his second, third, fifth, sixth, seventh, tenth and every birthday since. He doesn't think about it, not much. Gated communities raised their kids like that, so it had to be normal. Right?

     Not that it fucking matters, of course, because he's late for class on account of sitting in the shower and thinking about stuff. Post-adolescent haze came down hard on him when he woke up. He even tolerated Eren's obnoxiously patriotic chant ("Go Trost Titans! Kick ass!" he'd chorused to the delightful tune of knocking over his own cereal bowl. "Fuck.") in trade for lying in bed and feeling empty as fuck. Now that's normal; sort of a cocktail of emotions paired with loneliness to kick him in his gut occasionally (he swears it's nothing, of course; it would be too feminine of him to fucking  _feel_  something). Maybe he'd hoped it'd go away with college life, or at least, the college life he'd wanted.

     In any case, being late on the third week was already normal. Somehow there was already a kid (who he recognised from high school) called Connie who only had 20% attendance so far and was stoned in what classes he did attend. It sort of made Jean amused how he kind of envied the guy, or at least understood him; Jean chose business because what would make more sense in a sensible world with sensible realities. The childish part of him wanted to impress his parents, too (which he supposes is also the part that descends upon him to make him feel chaotically empty every other day). Connie, though, from what he could tell, chose business for no reason at all. And when he compared that to  _his_  reasons... the two seemed strangely familiar.

       He didn't know what he was doing. Existentially, he was coasting, but he knew one thing: he didn't care about business, or business strategies, or stocks and shares and investors and  _shit_. His morning lecture goes on for hours and there is seemingly no escape except in the half-light of the partially turned blinds. Through the slats, if he tilted his head just right, he could see the playing field, most of it obscured by the slanted bleachers. Somewhere in that manic, screaming crowd, was his half-wit of a roommate. His blood boils at the thought of him cheering with his face painted and his fucking shirt off and his stupid face-            

     "Stay here much longer and you'll miss lunch." Like a gunshot in a cemetery, Pr. Smith's voice wakes him. Jean blinks once or twice- the seats are empty, and he'd missed the whole lecture. Apathy is what he feels mostly, maybe a bit embarrassed when his professor looks at him like that (awkward, confused smile as he slaps closed his laptop). "Are you alright? You're a little pale." Jean won't answer. He smiles, out the door in fifteen seconds, head down, past the cafeteria doors. He's gotta find that Connie kid, at least for the weed.

     Finding Connie was easier said than done. He tried all the plausible stoner hangouts- under the bleachers, the side alleys, disused sports sheds- and he was starting to get frustrated. Something in him gave him a meagre craving to try to catch up on that lesson he missed, maybe out of guilt. So where do students go when they want to try? He guessed... the library. 

     Trost League wasn't a new establishment. The buildings were old and mismatched, annexes from every era since the 1930s. The library itself was part of the original building, but only just. The ceiling sagged down on its beams, exposed brick more shabby than chic. The bookcases didn't even look like they belonged in this room, up a refurbished metal stair to a strange half floor up the double height space, which he could only compare to the haylofts he'd seen when he went to visit his grandpa in Shigan that one time. On the lower floor there was an array of painted trolleys and short stacks of books and publications, none of which seemed to have any order at all. The librarian was an eclectic woman, hair like a bird's nest (pencils, pens and other stationery being its eggs) and her glasses, half-way down her crow's nose, were covered in fingerprints. Her whole ensemble- teal and satin and very 80s - lead down to a scratched out name tag, adorned with smiley face stickers, reading the name "Ms. Hange, LIBRARIAN".

     He sat down in the most unappealing spot possible, as far away from the crazy eyes at the library desk that kept trying to find his own so desperately; the trash can sort of smelled, but if he could tolerate Eren, he could tolerate this. As he rooted through his bag, a familiar voice called his name.

     "Jean!" He knew that voice well- it sounded the way freshly cut grass smelled, like summer sunset through a car window, like- "I didn't know you were coming to Trost League! I thought you were going to that fancy place, the one with the awards." Jean's face flushed a little. How degrading...

     "Uh, well, circumstances changed. I- I didn't know you were going to college at all, I mean, I thought you did that thing with the circus?" Jean didn't know what the fuck he was talking about, technically. Marco was a talented performer, he did things on those loops high up in the air and the ribbons- he was an intern at the summer circus in Shigan ( _an intern at a circus? How the fuck does that even exist?)._ Everyone had joked about Marco running away like in the movies but Jean had seen him, dancing up there- it was magic- but he called it  _gay,_ just in case his masculinity was doubted. Marco understood.

     "Oh." Marco smiled. He'd cut his hair, parting on his forehead to show the sweet summer tan he was blessed with all year round. "Well, I'm doing performing arts! It's not so easy to just run to the circus- it's a real job! They expect qualifications and experience and everything." His gaptoothed smile, half yellowed from his taste for sugar, distracted Jean from his haze.

     "Did you hear about who I got as roommate?" Jean asked- to which he got a head shake. "Fucking Eren." He regretted saying it almost immediately. Marco practically fell off the world, let alone his flimsy chair, laughing. 

     "That- that has made my semester." He said when he finally sat up, clutched his abdomen and winced. "Too funny. How is it so far? Killed eachother yet?" Jean groaned.

     "I don't have the energy. He hasn't calmed down at all. He's the human equivalent of a foghorn- and he breaks  _everything._ " Jean sighed and dropped his head into his folded arms. Laughing, Marco patted him on his head.

     "It's alright buddy. You'll be fine. Probably." Jean lacked the will to appreciate the sentiment.

* * *

 

    Words could not describe the crushing disappointment he'd felt that first day when he laid eyes upon, what he considered to be, his worst enemy. It was like when the dog dies in Marley & Me, or when it looks like you  _just might make it_ and the lights change. And the worst part, was all Eren had to say was-

     "Oh- Oh, boy." While laughing, doubled over, hair flopped over and curling up like it had a question, Eren had never irritated Jean more. He was wearing loose sweatpants, which Jean was sure were already dirty, and a white wifebeater under an open flannel shirt. To top off the odyssey of total tool Eren always told so soundlessly, he wore high top shoes, and what looked like Huf socks ( _gag_ ). "Of all the fuckers in this dormitory, you and I are together?" He laughs more, pine eyes glinting in the grey light off the small window. 

    "Fuck you. I'm changing." Jean said, closing the door behind him firmly. Eren scoffed, standing up and leaning against the wall in front of Jean.

    "Really? 'Cause rumour has it, little mr rich boy lost his funding, so I doubt you'll afford the processing fees. How'd that happen, huh?" Eren loved to bait him, and he was good at it too.

    "Get out of my way, idiot." Jean growled, trying to ignore him as he pushed past. He set his suitcase down on the futon and took in the room. Frankly, all he could think of was  _shit, literal asshole productive shit._ There was a bunk bed (Eren's shit already dumped on top) on one wall, a small, dirty window in between and the futon Eren'd obviously brought. There was an old closet leaned against the bunk beds, and a mirror. Of course, bathroom facilities were communal, so Jean's life was over. 

    "Oh, thanks, babe. I like it rough." Eren mocked, faking a 'sexy' strut. Jean could practically feel his brain dissolving. "Seriously, though? What'd you do? Steal from daddy's credit cards? I'm sure it wasn't anything to do with bringing girls home- we both know  _that._ " And, in an instant, like old times, Jean swung for that stupid greedy grin of Eren's, and missed. Eren only blew a raspberry and flopped back down on the futon, kicking away Jean's  _very expensive_ suitcase.

   "You're a fucking asshole, Eren. I'll kill you, I swear to God-"

   "Catch!" And of course, he is pelted with parts of the drinking glass Eren had broken. To Jean's seething splutters, Eren merely replied- "Welcome to Trost!".

* * *

 

     Back in the present, Jean couldn't steel himself enough to open the door to his dorm for a good three minutes.  He could hear Eren's music playing loudly, and could hear the idiot trying to sing along. It sounded fucking infuriating and he wanted to break his neck already (oddly, him and Eren have a similar taste in music; a ghost from the days of their friendship, when mixtapes were so cool and in and so were their favourite band, The Cranberries).

     When he did finally manage to build up the courage, he was met with Eren, shirtless (not unusual) and wearing those disgusting sweatpants again, dancing around like a lunatic while somehow simultaneously consuming a slice of what looked like cold cafeteria pizza.

    "Hey, Jean! How's it hanging,  _bruuuuh_?" Eren was a fucking moron. This was undeniably clear. But  _God_ did that boy know how to rile him up. But, equally, so did Jean.

    "It's hanging good,  _bruh_ , how's your dad? He call you today? Oh-  _waiiiit._ " Jean jeered. Predictably that hit a nerve, and Eren changed from taunting fun face to big boy stance (at only 5'6).

    "What the fuck is your problem, asshole?"  Eren spat, veins in his thick neck bulging like a bull in a ring. At 6'1, Jean wasn't so intimidated if not amused by his attempt to scare him. "Don't smile at me like that, you big dumb fucker."

     "I'm so scared. What are you gonna do?" Jean taunted, fighting talk. "Bite my ankles?" Jean had misjudged Eren's timing, and his sharp fist caught him on the jaw on his last word.  He made a lousy attempt at a counter which sent both of them down onto the linoleum, hard. God knows how long they wrestled for. It sort of felt like high school, with more meaning (thanks Cranberries), and somehow Eren being stronger; obviously he was actually working out here instead of just fucking girls under the bleachers like in high school. It felt oddly sentimental, Eren straddling his midriff, hands around his neck, turning him blue. Seeing that raw anger he'd missed so- what?

    "Fuck you, man. I'm going out." He didn't know when Eren had got off of him, stopped choking him. When the door slams he tries to catch his breath, and fails. He falls asleep on the floor, like a fucking baby, thinking about high school like it was yesterday, to the soundtrack of his half-hearted rivalry. How poetic.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beepie boopie these fuckers are unbelievable thanx for readin budsies. also feedback LOVE U *edited the heights bc my own thirst for tall boys is too real. i need to be realistic. one day ill date a 6'5 guy alright dont bother me on this


	3. A Temporary Note

This will be removed soon.

Hi! I'd like to apologise for not updating this. Sadly, my life has been hectic recently. I'm hoping to be able to continue writing this soon though and I hope my small collection of fans of this work will still have faith in me.

Love,

L


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